


The Beekeeper's Scent

by honeybee221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bees, But it's definitely not realistic, Fluff, Lots of people complained about the crack tag, M/M, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, To Say Nothing of the Dog, mortal peril, scientists are going to be really mad at me, so I took it down, tru wuv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:07:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee221b/pseuds/honeybee221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale told from the POV of a bee who lives in a Sussex apiary, tended by a certain retired consulting detective. She's a bit fascinated with that tall git and when he goes missing, she goes on the hunt. No warnings unless you have strong feelings about me mucking about in the realities of bee behavior.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beekeeper's Scent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/gifts).



> This is for the lovely [Moonblossom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom), one of the sweetest people in this fandom.
> 
> Thanks to [ Airynothing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/airynothing/pseuds/airynothing) and her laser eyes for removing a seriously silly number of commas.
> 
> As always, I owe a great deal to [HiddenLacuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna) for everything from inspiration to guidance to making me laugh like a crazy person about fake duels and ham.

Love itself has a scent. It’s something that is everywhere around the hive, perfuming the sweet air. I’ve never known life without it. It has just always been there, just part of the atmosphere, like the salty mist from the English Channel or the sunshine that makes our flowers grow.

It was there the day I hatched, with 1,400 of my sisters, in our apiary in the garden of John and Sherlock. I like that word, apiary. It tastes like home. Yes, bees know words, but we are much more fluent in taste, scent, and of course body language, as it is our first language. Even though it is often muffled by the big white suits they wear when among the colony, the body language of John and Sherlock and the waggle dance they do around each other has always said things about tenderness, passion, affection and especially love. It’s heaven and I want to cover myself in it like a golden dusting of pollen.

Sherlock in particular has always fascinated me. Don’t tell anyone -- of course, the work comes first -- but if I’ve met my pollen quota for the day, I sometimes follow him as he goes about his rambles or watch him as he sits with John on the porch, sharing a cup of tea -- Sherlock takes lots of honey in his.

In those rare times they are apart, John is usually elbow-deep in soil, bent low, coaxing one more bud from the earth -- the nurturer, the creator. Sherlock spends his time watching us; always watching with sharp eyes, observing, seeking to understand as we circle him, buzzing and dancing, talking to him. He might not understand it all, but I've no doubt one day he will. He'll hear me when I tell him my secrets. Maybe then I won’t be just one of the multitudes. Maybe I’ll stand out to him the way John does.

They are always touching each other. A hand on an arm, a finger tap to a nose, a quick embrace before separating. If Sherlock is lightning, John is the tallest tree around, grounded and completely irresistible. Although Sherlock is the reason we are here, John is the one who quietly provides for us. He spends his time planting long-blooming Lemon Balm, or pruning the delicious Elderberry bushes -- almost exclusively with Toby dancing circles around him. I can’t say that my tribe has great affection for that dog, but he surely can do a waggle dance like no other.

Today, as I and the rest of the workers were lining up to to fly toward the Honeysuckle along the fenceline and the enticing-looking Lavender on the far side of the meadow, something disturbing, something that tasted acrid, like burning, created a low unsure buzz in my stomach that quickly spread among the tribe.

Scouts were sent out to find the source of the disturbance and report back.

The smell made my head hurt and made me a bit wobbly. It reminded me of that time had they fought and Sherlock had thrown John’s laptop into the ocean. Actually, this was worse. It smelled like fear.

The girls reported back to the tribe that the acrid odour was coming from John. His scent is normally very strong, but comforting, like where the earth becomes steady under your feet near the sandy shore. No one could locate Sherlock’s crackling ozone scent. The situation was deemed serious enough to notify the Queen. While we were waiting for instructions from the Queen, I decided to do a little reconnaissance myself.

I launched from the hive and flew through the garden to the cottage -- making a wide detour around the camphor tree and its medicinal smell. The cottage is a lovely little brick two-story. Although I prefer a hexagon shape myself, their rectangle is lovely and the front is softened by white climbing roses.

When Sherlock’s not in the apiary, he usually can be found sitting on the back deck, surrounded by books or pounding away at a laptop, and shaded by the huge old chestnut tree. Two empty chairs sat on the deck. A look through the windows revealed nothing else except John’s housekeeping skills -- well-kept, simple furniture, with two armchairs facing each other in front of the fireplace. There was a desk with quite a bit of clutter on it, with a mobile sitting in the center, but the rest of what I could see was tidy and clean. Past the kitchen, I could see several amber jars lining the pantry. The smell of fear was stronger here, but it still couldn’t wipe out the scent that John and Sherlock created together -- like the sweet flowers on a lime tree.

I buzzed my way back toward the hive to find that the Queen had sent down word for everyone -- save the nursery staff -- to suspend regular activity and search for Sherlock. I flew straight up to see that the tribe had scattered around the South Downs. From my vantage point, I could see John and Toby making their way in the direction of the Laughing Man.

I headed along the path near the drop-off to the ocean, knowing that Sherlock tended to walk that way when he wanted to be alone. It was far away from the annoying buzz of Eastborne and its tourists. When we were here, I could hear the agitation of his thoughts quiet and settle -- and his scent became less stormy -- as he looked out to the sea.

The way his mind worked was part of the reason I was so fond of Sherlock. I can feel vibrations from most people on occasion, a bit sporadic and disconcerting. But with Sherlock, it’s more like a hot pulse. It’s electric and cuts through me in the most exciting way. I’m sure John feels that way about Sherlock, too. When Sherlock is with him, John’s vibration always kicks up a notch and his scent turns into something more like stones that have baked in the warm sun all day.

I was thinking about poor John, how he must be so worried, when I suddenly caught a few notes of a familiar scent on the air. It was difficult to follow -- it kept fading away or getting blown around by winds off the ocean. I even veered off toward the plains for a while before I realized I was following the breeze rather than the source of the smell itself. I had to backtrack for quite a while before I reached the cliff-side path again.

The scent was definitely stronger near the cliff and I beat my wings faster in an effort to make up for time lost. The sea air and the sound of the waves did nothing to calm my nerves this time.

I knew for sure what I was smelling was Sherlock, but it was muted and the air was still -- his vibration wasn’t here. Trying not to let panic overtake me, I perched on a rock and focused on what Sherlock would do. He certainly wouldn’t let his emotions overcome logic, I thought to myself. Sharpen up.

I set out a grid and tracked through the area where the smell was the strongest, but came up with nothing. The fear, it’s like the smoke he uses to quiet us, fogging my mind and making my reactions slow and difficult.

I landed on a tall blade of grass and took a few deep breaths. Looking around hadn’t worked, so I decided to try another tactic -- I closed my eyes and took off, flying by scent alone -- I headed into the wind. When I hit the border where I had previously turned back -- the edge of the cliff -- this time, I kept going. The taste of chalk, calcium carbonate and flint was strong. I opened my eyes and under me was only the sea. Then I saw it. A dark shape on an outcropping about 30 yards below.

I bombed down -- yes, it was Sherlock! I hovered over him, darting from head to feet and back again. His eyes were closed and his ozone smell was blanketed by something I couldn’t understand. But I could see his chest rising and falling. He was a sickly grey colour and lay curled on his side on a small ledge. The ocean beat against the stones 100 yards below. I came in closer to his face. His eyelids moved, but the rest of him was still. The metallic tang of blood filled my senses and my wings stuttered with fear. I landed on his face. All this time I’d watched him and I’d never touched him before. He was warm and I could feel a low vibration under my feet. But he did not move. I walked over one sharp cheekbone and felt the air rush in and out of his nose. His breathing seemed strong.

This was very much outside my experience. I know one thing -- I look for pollen, collect it and bring it back to the colony. I listen to the collective buzz of my tribe, and when I’m feeling bold, I take a detour to visit Sherlock on the porch or walking in the green fields. This was unlike anything I’d faced before. I couldn’t think what to do. I rarely had to do anything that hadn’t already been scripted for me. My thoughts cycled round and round, threatening to make me ill. I had to do something, but felt frantic with indecision.

My wings had been constantly lifting me and dropping me and I could detect my own “danger” scent -- and that’s what triggered it. His eyelid flicked open, just for a second. I knew Sherlock had been closely observing us and had noticed -- clever man that he is -- the odours the tribe gave off to communicate. Hovering near his nose, I was sending out an even more concentrated burst of “danger.”

Nothing happened. Sherlock didn’t respond. I redoubled my efforts and flew so close, I could only see one closed eye. I watched his eyelashes for signs of movement. There! A small flicker. Then his whole body jerked violently. I backed off quickly and watched helplessly as he fought off the invisible invaders. He was still unconscious, but his body inched closer and closer to the edge of the rock as he twitched. I had to calm him or wake him immediately before he fell.

John. John could calm him.

I flew as close to him as I dared and mimicked the John scent. I thought about warm stones, deep roots and sturdy branches. I wrapped Sherlock in a blanket of wool jumpers and soil and love. I tried desperately not to think about Sherlock falling and his body being washed out to sea as John continued to look for him miles away on land.

One leg slipped over the side and its weight partially rolled him until an arm was also dragged over the side toward the ocean below. I cursed my tiny, segmented body and my infernal, useless wings. Why couldn’t I be something, anything, that was actually useful?

Suddenly, a silver-blue eye appeared before me and Sherlock jerked back from the edge and held completely still -- one hand on the back of his head, quickly taking in his situation. After a few seconds, he arranged himself with his back to the cliff and his feet toward the sea. I breathed a huge sigh of relief until his head bobbled and he slumped again. There was a great deal of blood pooled on the rock where he had had lain and coating his hand where it fell away from his head. Clearly, Sherlock was not going to get out of here on his own. And if John was anything like me, even if he walked right past this place, he wouldn’t know to look down.

I didn’t want to go, but with his back against the rock wall, he had about half a yard on all sides. He likely would be OK as long as he slept soundly. I had to leave him.

With one last look at his sleeping form, I took off, flying as fast as I could across the field toward the apiary, spreading the aroma of “home” as I went. When I got to the colony, I communicated as quickly as I could to those of us who were left in the hive and sent out messengers to call the others back. Then I formulated my plan.

When a significant number of the tribe had come back, I questioned those who had flown in the same direction that I last saw John heading. I performed the circle dance to tell them where Sherlock was and how I thought we could help the two find each other. There was a loud buzz of excitement that Sherlock had been found, and general agreement that we should try whatever we could to help the beekeeper.

One last waggle, and the tribe swarmed and we flew as one toward John, reaching him within minutes. We circled him and he pulled up sharply, his expression turning from concern to alarm. But it wasn’t John we were aiming for. I wasn’t sure we could get John to follow a swarm of bees -- but we certainly could get Toby to chase after us. It was something he did on a regular basis, after all. Swooping around the hound, we buzzed him and strafed him with the scent of a predator or an enemy. My sisters and I together made a noise like a stampede, like a tornado, like a siren.

Toby snapped and barked and spun in circles. Then, we rose in a column and turned towards the cliffs, Toby close behind us even as John bellowed at him to stop.

I led the swarm back to the cliffside, always keeping an eye on Toby and John as they trailed after us. I couldn’t allow them to get too far behind. When we reached the edge, I separated myself from the group and went back to Sherlock. He slept still, despite his uncomfortable position. I would have to wake him so he could call out to John. Learning from my mistakes, I dispersed the scent of John rather than “danger” into the air and watched him carefully. He stayed slumped over. I heard Toby’s barking getting louder, and apparently, so did Sherlock. By the time Toby was at the cliff, Sherlock was struggling to open his eyes and sit up.

With a huge deep breath, he gained understanding of his situation and his eyes focused as he drew his long legs up and wrapped his arms around his knees. That’s when he noticed me. Something like a smile -- well, half of a smile -- touched his lips.

I hovered in front of him for a few more seconds -- putting out my own, personal scent this time. It’s -- well I don’t know how to describe it, but it looks a bit like blue and smells like yellow -- so I guess you might say it tastes kind of green. Lime green.

His expression didn’t change, but he continued to stare at me and I felt that lovely thrill as his vibration pierced the air between us. I glanced up, but the swarm were still occupied with a leaping and growling Toby, so I touched down on one knee and did a little waggle dance that communicated -- well, basically the mirror image of that sly Holmes smile -- then spread my wings and rejoined the tribe.

I reached the swarm as John was tugging at Toby’s collar. I’m not sure if he first saw the slick patch of mud at the edge of the path or heard Sherlock’s voice coming from below. As the swarm turned for home, John was on his belly, head and shoulders over the edge, reassuring Sherlock that he was there. The salty breeze carried with it Sherlock’s relieved voice and the tingly taste of laughter through tears.

\---------------------

It was days before things returned to normal with John back in the dirt and Sherlock back among the hives. Well, normal except for one thing. Instead of taking their tea on the back porch under the chestnut tree, John and Sherlock moved their chairs to the apiary and sat among us every morning so that we all started our day with the taste of jasmine tea on our tongues. Tea leaves, warm stones, ozone and the sweet scent of the flowers of a lime tree.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for The Beekeeper's Scent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/699616) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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